Stop My Heart
by TotallyCaptivated
Summary: "What's your name?" The being looked calculating, silver eyes blazing before slowly turning their attention back to him.   "Sherlock. You're here for my blood too, aren't you John Watson?"
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN. All rights go to BBC and Moffat.

A/N: Sorry if there are any grammatical errors. I hate re-reading things I write. Feedback would be lovely, and highly appreciated.

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><p>It was a small mass of clustered houses, all wooden and clay, which were tucked soundlessly away into the tumbling arms of green grass hills and tall willowy trees. The mountains carried towers for late nights when there was a war, and the wind that churned the valley was cool while the air was warm. The people that lived there were lively and strung out to the brim with hidden greed. They argued and gambled on dusty summer nights, and when the trees threw away their attires of green and changed into orange they would sit out and caramelize the fallen red apples and roast the seeds of the indigenous vegetation. It was known throughout the village (and many others surrounding) that every twenty years on the day April 6th a man was to be gathered and sent out over the wide expansion of hills and plains in search of a creature for its blood. The crimson liquid that flowed through the beings veins would add fifty years unto its capturer's life. Every village fought for it, and only some received it.<p>

The date was April 4 when John Watson was informed that he would be the one from their village to hunt the required creature. His sister, Harriet, who had the letter of deed appear on her doorstep by mistake, had told the news to him. It always confused John on why his village didn't assemble a group of men instead of choosing just one, but it had become clear to him the instant he had seen the town's people's faces. They would kill each other for the first drink of blood, and a whole group would return with just one. In truth, John didn't wish to leave. He and his wife, Sarah were finally getting along again, and he hated the thought of leaving her when things had finally started going well for them. But when he told her about his upcoming absence her eyes had shone bright and her cheeks had flushed and she had gripped him harshly by the arm in her overwhelmed excitement.

"Oh, John!" She had cooed, lips parting in a wide adherent smile, "That's fantastic news! Oh! Just imagine! We could live long enough to start a new life! To build a house and home…" Her words had flowed together then, and John had lost his train of thought at the mention of staying here. He hated these hills, and he hated the greedy, self-centered people that occupied them. No one cared for each other, not really, and it was this time of year that truly brought people's real sides out.

"When do you think you'll be back?" Mary called from the parlor, and John gazed in her direction before turning back to his notepad. The pages remained as blank as they had been an hour ago. He really had no idea what to write about.

"Still thinking?" Mary bristled, appearing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and her hair falling in brown ringlets over her shoulders. John nodded. He twirled his pencil between his fingers, memorizing the rough particles of wood scraping against his skin.

"You've been sitting here all day." Mary stated, her voice more tense than before. "Shouldn't you be packing up? You're leaving tomorrow." And then as a last thought she added: "Go on a little adventure. Write about it. But get packed up and bring us back some more years to live!" It was only when John was certain she was gone that he let himself whisper:

"Nothing happens to me. Capturing someone against both our wills isn't going to change that." And as though on impulse he wrote that down, a perfect title for a perfectly boring story about a perfectly boring life. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering down to his satchel that was propped against the far wall of his room. He stood with a grunt and flung his notepad in there, his pencil, a small dagger, some water, and yet another blade. The war had taught him to never be too careful. After a moment he threw in some matches. Fire was always good. Harriet came to visit him later on that day. She was smiling and bent down to kiss his cheek. Before she left she threw him a hopeful glance and said jokingly: "You'll share some blood with me won't ya? Family first after all." It was meant as a lighthearted comedic measure but she may as well have held a dagger to his throat. There was nothing joking about it. A lot of townsfolk visited him that day, actually. Each bringing over food, and knives, and lanterns for his trip. Wished him the best of luck.

"Bring some life back to us!" They called. As if this things blood would really let these people live. It was a waste. There was no point in this. But John knew as well as everyone that this wasn't optional. You can't break a hundred year old tradition. That night lanterns were hung. They glowed red in their paper coverings and dangled gloriously off the slanted roofs of the village. Fresh grilled smells filled the air and music drifted soft out and over the hills. Other fires and parties could be seen as faint small dots on the horizon. Everyone was preparing. There was always a farewell party. Always. At twelve John made his way to the large gate to their town, his neighbors and sister and wife watching him apprehensively from the road back.

Sarah had stumbled forward and kissed his cheek, gripped his hand and hissed: "Make me proud. Make me young again." And John had hidden his disappointment, choked down the sinking feeling in his heart and turned walking through the gate, the bundle of leather on his back containing the necessities that he would need. It wouldn't be a long journey, not at all, the creature's habitat very close to their village. No, he could find the thing in two days. But it was a race, to get there first, and that's what had John keeping his hand clasped around the blunt wooden handle of his blade.

There were no rules.

Nothing was considered "cheating".

Everything went, and nothing was banned.

The weight of his weapon remained a constant reminder.

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><p>He remembered the steel ripping through the skin of his shoulder.<p>

Remembered the feelings of utter shock and abandon as a wave of pain washed over him.

His vision was bombarded with black dots.

He knew that wasn't good.

He never remembered hitting the ground.

He never remembered anyone carrying him to safety.

But he did remember the eyes, the bluest of blues dancing with an earnest silver touch.

And he remembered the voice, a deep baritone of unspoken promises and whispers.

The eyes and voice and pain all seemed connected in his mind.

They made up the memories of his injury during the war two years back.

John didn't miss the fighting.

But often he found himself missing those eyes, and that deep rich voice.

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><p>His shoulder gave a dulling ache and he blinked, looking about himself before stumbling upright. He placed his hand on the bark of the tree behind him, steadying himself before pulling on his pack and waltzing down the hills once more. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, especially not under an obvious tree right off the footpath. He really needed to be more careful. He was just lucky that someone from a surrounding village hadn't meandered past and decided to knock out one of their competitors. The hills glowed a dark green, the shadows of the night turning everything around him black. But the stars shone through the murky despair of the valley, and John turned up his gaze to study their white blooming forms. He did hate it here, but he loved the stars, and from these hills they looked spectacular. No one in his village saw the point of gazing at the night sky. Not even Sarah, although she would sit by him on warm, clear nights just to keep him company. It didn't stop her from complaining though.<p>

'I just don't understand it, John. They're lights. We see them everyday. Now come on inside, lets eat dinner.'

The dirt of the road shuffled beneath his boots and he watched as a faint veil of dust alighted on the top of his laces. The water in his pack sloshed around at every jostling step, and John eventually grew weary of carrying a dagger. Soundlessly he slipped it into his belt. Now his hands grasped the straps of his satchel and he desperately tried to blink the tired from his eyes as he walked on. It was around 1:34 he supposed, when John had spotted another man on the footpath ahead. Without any hesitation he had flung himself behind a tree and settled himself into the recesses of the bushes neighboring. He heard a man's voice, rough but accented across the wind and he strained to hear what he was saying. With an aggravated sigh John creeped across the line of dark vegetation, coming into the range of hearing and settling down again to listen.

"It's from the village in the East. They're sending a message, apparently, by the looks of how torn up this thing is. Ah, and look! Letters, carved into the poor things fur. Honestly, how morbid can you get?" A woman's voice seemed to join in with the man's in disgusted agreement, but she sounded closer to John's position then the man did.

"Lestrade, they're freaks! They're deranged, they shouldn't even be allowed to participate in this after what they did last time!" John heard the man sigh in agreement and the two had fallen silent, until at last, with a ruffled 'come one, then' from the man they had turned and begun to hike up the hill opposite to John's right. He felt the impulsive need to tell them they were going the wrong way, south actually, when they needed to be going west. But he held his tongue and waited soundlessly until their voices had died and their footsteps had no longer carried. John made his way from his position, squinting slightly in the dark until he spotted what they were talking about. There was an animal, small and young, that lay in tattered bloodied remains on the edge of the dusted road. It's fur had been torn away on one side, and carved rich and deep into the animal's pink skin were the letters: 'I. O. U'.

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><p>Reveiws are LOVE.<p>

They keep me going.

:)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN. All rights go to BBC and Moffat.

A/N: Sorry if there are any grammatical errors. I hate re-reading things I write. Feedback would be lovely, and highly appreciated. If anyone has a better idea for the summary I would love to hear it.

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><p>John had miscalculated.<p>

Terribly so.

He was told that the creature lay dormant on the top of the center mountain of the hills, alone and barred off from the world by the streams that ran curiously down the mountains steep ridges. Unfortunately, the villagers had been wrong. The Center Mountain was at least a four day hike, and John had carelessly only packed for two, maybe three. His water supply was already running dangerously low.

But in the end he chose to forget about this little detail and push on. Strangely enough he hadn't seen anyone, and he hadn't fallen into any traps of any kind. It made him slightly paranoid, and he decided to get off the road but keep it in his sight. If the others would leave traps, something to slow him down, they would do so by planting them either on the edges of the road or literally in the middle of the trail. So he made sure to keep his distance and his blade on hand. It was an easy hike through the dirt of the forest, there was barely any grass, but moss grew heavily on the barks of trees and stones and John was aware of the trees tall arms stretching like a protected shield over his head. It was frighteningly peaceful, but he kept his ears pricked and his grip firm. The last thing he needed was to die two days in by having an arrow fly through his skull, or shoulder.

It would certainly be a waste. The forest itself stretched across the whole width of the mountain, and the sun shone lazily through the thick grey clouds that had begun to gather. Rain wasn't an issue. Not at this point anyway. He had a tarp he would just make camp if it got too bad, and honestly John had already grown bored a long time ago. Maybe the rain would make things more fun. After four hours of hiking straight John settled down onto a log with his notepad in hand and pencil balancing on the tips of his fingers. This would pass the boredom, some small thing at a time.

He really was in no rush, even though he had the feeling he should be. But he allowed himself the liberty of dazing away as he drew and when the loud cry shook him from his revere he hadn't the time to look at his new drawing before ducking himself away under the cover of ripe foliage. He crouched, waiting with tense muscles and apprehensive breaths. His palms had grown slightly sweaty from his kick of adrenaline and he gripped his knife tighter in his palms, the wooden handle cutting into his palm. He dared not move.

In the clearing appeared three men. One flung the third onto a log without any hesitation. The same cry echoed around the stills of the trees and stones and the man who had been thrown cried out softly before giving a violent cough, which earned him a kick to the ribs. The man who had thrown the other hadn't said or moved since, and John noticed the second man standing dangerously close to the first, his hands weaving slow and suggestive around the others arm.

"He got too close." The clinging man whispered, eyes looking glazed and out of focus. "Sebastian, I'll leave him to you. Catch up." And with that the male turned and frolicked away, a skip in his step and a hand running over his hair as though in effort to smooth it down. John turned his attention back to the man who must be Sebastian, just in time to see the man's foot rise and fall back harshly on the younger man's head. John felt his stomach churn as Sebastian continued stomping repeatedly down on and John saw his neck snap back and his body go limp.

John could taste the acidic flavor of bile rise up in his throat but clasped his hand over his mouth to prevent any noise that could give away his position. Sebastian was tall, but lean, and although John had a knife he didn't want to risk his head being mashed into a lump of red and grey. After a moment Sebastian straightened himself and headed off in the direction the other man had made his exist. And John sat quiet for some time afterward, used to seeing people die but not really wanting to believe that that was what he had just seen. After some time he uncovered himself from the vegetation and cautiously approached the body. It was already beginning to stink. It was a child it seemed, the way the face still had most of its youth, a young man in his early twenties. He was downed in brown clothes, tattered trousers used to long days in the field. He undoubtedly belonged to the Village in the West. So the two men who had just left…East perhaps?

Just the thought of that alone made John leave in a haste, tripping over his own boots as he desperately tried to distance himself from the mangled body. His notebook was still tucked away under his arm and he glanced down at his left hand. His tremor had returned.

With a grunt he hoisted himself over a fallen tree taking out his pad and looking precariously at his new drawing. A pair of almond eyes stared back up at him, dark curled bangs aligning across his pictures forehead, just above the eyebrows. John felt a pang of nostalgia at the piece, but quickly shook it off as paranoia crept its way in and John packed up his drawing and hurried on his way once more.

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><p>The woods at night were something totally different than it was during the day. John had never seen anything like it before. The trees seemed to give off their own glow of bioluminescence sheen, and the flowers and fruits that had been tucked away during the day had bloomed beautifully. Every step he took felt softer, and every gust of wind felt cooler. The air was still warm but this weather right now was perfect, with the light of the forest and the smell of an aftermath of rain. And John continued on, unaware of the silver eyes that followed his every step.<p>

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><p>Reveiws are LOVE.<p>

They keep me going.

:)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN. All rights go to BBC and Moffat.

A/N: Sorry if there are any grammatical errors. I hate re-reading things I write. Feedback would be lovely, and highly appreciated. If anyone has a better idea for the summary I would love to hear it.

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><p><em>He had never been this close to a human before.<em>

_He could smell its fear, read how injured it was by its gasping breaths and muscles tense with shock._

_It was a man._

_A bleeding, broken man._

_And his heart ached in a way that was so unfamiliar it hurt._

_His eyes surveyed the land, the utter resolute destruction of grey and red._

_The man gave a convulsing shout and fell limp, blood sloshing sweetly out of a hole in his left shoulder._

_He stepped closer, the man's eyes had fallen closed but judging from the man's still ragged breaths he had not yet lost consciousness._

_ "You're hurt." He stated and knelt down by the man's side. He thought he saw the man give a sardonic smile._

_ "Yeah." The man groaned eyes squinting open._

_ "You've been hit by an arrow in the shoulder. Judging by the direction of your skin and the profound bleeding I would say that you pulled it out yourself, and in a fit of hysterics. It's becoming harder to breathe and your growing dizzy, lost a lot of blood. Your clothes say you're a doctor, not a frontline warrior, although you did get missed up in the middle of everything about, oh, fifteen minutes ago. You fled after getting shot. Your scared."_

_ The man didn't respond just sighed and then his lips quirked up in a laid back kind of smile._

_ "You're bloody right. You're good…" His voice trailed off to a groaning halt, and he watched as the man's breathing evened out._

_"What's your name?" He asked his voice taking on a slightly urgent edge and he leaned forward in his haste._

_ "John…John Watson." And then the man slipped out of the realm of consciousness._

_ He regarded the human a while longer before dipping down and wrapping his arm's gingerly beneath him._

_With a strength that didn't quite fit his lithe body he had picked up the man and had begun to carry him away from the warfare, off soundlessly into the forest. _

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><p>Reveiws are LOVE.<p>

They keep me going.

:)


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